How to Find Redemption
by lindsey and marie enterprises
Summary: After his death, Boromir is offered a chance to make up for his past mistake: by helping Thorin Oakenshield and Co. retake Erebor. He doesn't know how much of a difference he'll make, but he's going to try his best. He is going to succeed. He is going to go home and see Faramir. And above all, Boromir is going to protect his new friends with his life. By Lindsey
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: First thing's first: the idea came from a text post made by stand-up-and-fight-daleks on tumblr. They get full credit for the idea that spawned this story. I just took it and ran with it. Secondly, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Also, I want to make one thing perfectly clear: I like Tauriel, and I don't want any Tauriel bashing in the reviews. She will be featured prominently later on in the story, so if you don't want to see that, then this is not the fic for you. ONE MORE THING: this is going by the book timeline. I'm still following the events and characters in the movie, but I'm stretching the time a bit to accommodate a few tweaks. With that said, onward!**_

 _ **Disclaimer: The glorious world of Middle-Earth does not belong to me, sadly.**_

 **Chapter 1**

It hurt. Oh, by the Valar, it _hurt_. Boromir could barely think through the pain, but he still managed to level a steely gaze at the Uruk-Hai in front of him. He would face death as befitted a Man of Gondor: with honor and dignity…at least, as much as he could muster with three arrows protruding from his torso. The creature nocked and drew the fourth and final arrow, snarling in satisfaction.

Then, suddenly, a grey and black blur tackled the monster with a cry of rage. Boromir gasped in astonishment as he saw Aragorn begin to fight with the Uruk, leading it away from him. But Aragorn was already battered, bruised, and exhausted. He was struggling.

Setting his jaw in determination, Boromir grasped the middle arrow, the last one to be shot, and pulled as hard as he could. His vision blacked out for a moment. The pain had, if possible, doubled, and it was only lack of sufficient air that kept Boromir from screaming. Still, when his vision cleared, he saw that he had accomplished his task: the arrow was removed. He flung it weakly to the side and tried to stand.

It was as though his sword had tripled in weight. The weapon was impossibly heavy, and it seemed as though it tried to pull him back down to the leaf-covered forest floor. Finally, Boromir managed to get his feet under him. However, it was a futile effort: almost immediately, he staggered backwards and fell, landing against the great root of an ancient tree. The impact caused him to drop his blade.

Boromir knew not how long he lay there, but suddenly, he heard light footsteps taking long strides coming towards him. _Aragorn,_ he thought with relief. _He won_. He had been worried that his companion wouldn't have the strength to finish off the Uruk archer.

As soon as Aragorn came into view, Boromir spluttered out, "They took the little ones!" Automatically, his right arm shot up, his gloved hand latching onto the other man's wiry shoulder. His grip was surprisingly strong, but not as strong as it normally would've been.

"Be still," Aragorn admonished in a whisper. His gaze immediately dropped to the other Man's torso, frowning when he saw the damage. Suddenly, his eyes went wide: Boromir had yanked out one of the arrows! How had he had the strength? Not just in body, but in mind? It would have been pure agony.

His attention was called back to Boromir's face. "Frodo," he said, "where is Frodo?" Boromir sounded almost fearful, but there was determination in his eyes. He needed to know.

Aragorn hesitated before locking eyes with his fallen friend. "I let Frodo go," he replied softly.

Boromir sighed, relieved. "Then you did what I could not." His breath hitched, causing Aragorn to survey him in concern. "I tried to take the Ring from him." Voicing his shame, his failure, was perhaps the most painful thing Boromir had ever done. He waited for the disgust, the indignation, the anger, all of which would have been justified. Instead, he saw only sorrow and compassion.

"The Ring is beyond our reach now." _Our_ reach. So, it had targeted the heir of Isildur. Boromir understood. But it did not ease his mind, because Aragorn had succeeded where he had failed. _He_ had not succumbed. _He_ had not tried to kill the very person he had sworn to protect. Boromir had.

"Forgive me," he begged, unbidden tears welling up in his eyes. "I did not see. I have failed you all."

Aragorn shook his head in gentle, firm denial. "No, Boromir," he said, scolding him as he would a child. "You fought bravely. You have kept your honor." _Oh, if only that were true,_ Boromir thought ruefully.

As Aragorn reached to lift up his leather overcoat, Boromir grasped the other man's wrist, stilling his movement. "Leave it!" he choked out. Aragorn looked up at him, confusion and pain written all over his face. "It is over." Despair laced Boromir's voice…the despair of a dying man. "The world of Men will fall…and all will come to darkness…and my city to ruin!"

A soft whimper escaped his lips as he reached up and grasped Aragorn's left shoulder firmly. "Aragorn…" He let the plea hang unspoken in the air, almost like a challenge. Aragorn placed his left hand over Boromir's forearm, gazing down at him determinedly.

"I do not know what strength is in my blood," the Ranger said, "but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall…" Boromir locked eyes with the other Man, a small gleam of hope in his eyes. "…Nor our people fail," Aragorn finished, tightening his grip fiercely.

In that moment, it was as though Boromir was seeing Aragorn for the first time. This was not the same Ranger he had met in Rivendell. _No, not a Ranger_ , he corrected. _A King._

"Our people?" he gasped out, seeking confirmation. Aragorn nodded, the movement crisp and shallow. Boromir felt a faint smile touch his lips. "Our people!" he proclaimed, his voice slightly stronger.

Darkness crept at the corners of his vision; his time was coming. Gasping raggedly, Boromir stretched his right arm out, searching for his sword. His trembling hand fell just short. Seeing his need, Aragorn picked up the blade and reverently set it in Boromir's palm. Slowly, Boromir's fingers curled about the hilt. He tried to lift it, but he had no strength left to do so.

Again, Aragorn aided him. He helped him to lift the sword and rest it on his chest. For a long moment, the pair was silent, save for Boromir's labored breathing.

Finally, Boromir knew it was time. "I would have followed you, my brother," he vowed. Aragorn looked on the verge of tears. "My captain…my King." He had no strength left to speak. Blackness crept in, and his breathing stilled. Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, was gone.

XxXxXxX

It was as though he was floating through the night sky. There was but one star, and he was being drawn towards it. A familiar presence was waiting for him there, Boromir knew. _Mother_ , he thought.

Suddenly, he felt a force stopping him, holding him back. He could see nothing, but a Voice soon filled the air around him.

 _Not yet, my son_ , the Voice admonished. _You wish to redeem yourself. I have a test for you._ Brief flashes filled Boromir's mind: a Hobbit in a crimson coat; a Dwarf with the face of a king; a dragon raining fire down on a village; endless carnage in the center of a battle.

 _Your test lies in the journey of Thorin Oakenshield_ , the Voice proclaimed. _Help the Dwarf-king to reclaim his home. Ensure the line of Durin endures. Succeed, and you will see your City and your brother again. Fail, and you will journey on._

Boromir could hardly comprehend it. He was being given a second chance? A way to wipe clean his mistake? He bowed his head reverently. _I accept the test_ , he replied in a voice that seemed so small and insignificant after the power and majesty of the first.

 _Go, now, Son of Gondor. I wish you all the luck in the world…you may need it._ A white light filled the air, and Boromir knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: I am so sorry for keeping you all waiting so long, but I do have some good news! For the foreseeable future, this story will be my sole focus. I need to get out of a rut, and this is currently the only story I'm having any ideas for. If you follow any of my other stories, I ask you to be patient. If you follow any of Marie's stories, don't worry; she'll have something up soon, I'm sure. Now, onward!**_

 **Chapter 2**

A cool breeze, gentle sunlight, faint birdsong, and soft grass. Boromir sighed in contentment; it was so peaceful. He tried to relax, but he couldn't. Something was wrong. But what could possibly be wrong in such a happy place? Suddenly, as though someone had opened up the floodgates to a dam, it all came rushing back to him.

Boromir's eyes snapped open and he sat up, crying out. He looked around, confused. He did not recognize this forest; it was like nowhere he'd ever been before. Of course, if the Voice had done as it said, he was most likely somewhere in the Shire. For a moment, he smiled at the prospect of seeing his old friends again, but then he remembered. Thorin and his Company had embarked on their quest at nearly 80 years prior to the time he had just left.

He looked around, pleased to see that not only did he have his sword, but he also was in possession of his shield and the newly-repaired Horn of Gondor. Incredulously, Boromir placed a hand on his chest, feeling the spot where the arrow had been. It didn't even ache.

"Are you well, my son?" The Voice was back, but it had changed. It still radiated the same power and awe, but before, Boromir had not been able to discern a gender. Now, it was female, and more importantly, it was a voice he recognized.

He turned his head to the side and gasped. "Mother?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

She gave a gentle smile exactly like Finduilas would have, but her eyes were different. "I am afraid not. My true form is…difficult to comprehend, shall we say. I chose a shape that I thought would comfort you. Do you wish me to change it?"

Boromir let out a disappointed sigh. Of course; his mother was dead, had been for a long time. But still, it pleased him to at least be able to see her again, to hear her voice. "No, it is fine." He hesitated, worried that he would seem impertinent. "Forgive me, but…who exactly are you?"

The woman smiled at him with his mother's smile again. "I have many names. Eru, The One, Ilûvatar… You may even call me 'Mother' if you desire, but that name belongs to someone else."

Boromir looked around. "I gather we are somewhere in the Shire, then?"

Eru nodded. "Yes, at the edge of a forest called the Bindbale Wood. Bilbo Baggins lives a short way from here, around a half a day's walk. Once there, you must befriend our Hobbit and convince Thorin Oakenshield to let you join him in his quest. From there, it is up to you."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "And you can't help me at all?"

A musical laugh issued from her lips. "If I helped you, it wouldn't be much of a test, now would it?" She sobered and fixed him with a commanding stare. "I can occasionally offer advice, but your choices must be your own. I can neither influence your mind nor fight your battles." Eru gave him a sympathetic smile. "However, I would not send you into this without at least one gift to aid you."

Eru walked forward and placed two fingers on his forehead. There was a golden flash, and then her hand dropped back down by her side. "I cannot keep you from hearing the call of the Ring; however, you will now find it is much easier to ignore."

Boromir dropped his head. "I…words cannot describe the depth of my gratitude."

She smiled at him. "Now, you had best get moving if you want to reach Bilbo's home by tea time! And don't worry about dropping in unannounced; he'll be getting quite a few uninvited guests today." With that, she disappeared, with no trace of her having been there in the first place.

Boromir sheathed his sword, strapped his shield to his back, and made his way to the path. Luckily, it was easy to follow, and soon, he was on his way to Bag End.

As he journeyed further and further south, he began to meet more Hobbits on the road. Many of them gave him odd looks, but none stopped him to ask who he was or where he was from. This he had expected; from what Merry and Pippin had told him, Hobbits, though hospitable, were notoriously suspicious of outsiders.

He was forced to continue his walk through lunchtime because he had no provisions or any money to stop and buy something to eat. Boromir didn't really mind. He wasn't all that hungry, and he had missed a meal before. Besides, hopefully he would get something to eat at Bilbo's house.

He almost laughed to think of the eccentric old Hobbit he had met in Rivendell. To think he'd be meeting him again, and under such strange circumstances!

The sun was just starting to set when he arrived at the door of Bag End, which he had found after asking directions from a passing Hobbit. Boromir had been thinking of what to say to Bilbo the whole time, and he'd finally come up with a plausible, somewhat true story. So, taking a deep breath, Boromir rang the doorbell.

After a few moments, the green door opened to reveal a fairly young Hobbit with rich brown curly hair. He was obviously fully-grown and of age, but he was certainly a far cry from the Bilbo he'd met in Rivendell. Bilbo looked up at Boromir, confused.

Boromir gave Bilbo a respectful bow. "Good evening, sir. Boromir of Gondor, at your service. I am sorry to disturb you, but I am in need of assistance. I have lost my way traveling in the north. I have unfortunately used up all my provisions and have no money to get a room at an inn. Might I beg dinner and perhaps a bed for the night?"

Bilbo returned the bow. "Bilbo Baggins, at yours and your family's," he replied, then looked up at the Man with a smile. "Of course you may have dinner; I was just about to take tea myself. Pray come and have some with me."

He had to stoop to enter the hole, but once he did, Boromir had to smile. It was such a homey place. "You have a very comfortable home, Master Baggins," he complimented. He removed his sword and shield, leaning them against the wall by the door, and hung up his cloak on one of the pegs. His horn he kept on his belt.

Bilbo smiled at him again. "Why thank you, though I imagine it's a bit less comfortable for someone like you." Boromir let out a deep, rumbling laugh. "And of course, you are welcome to stay the night. I'm afraid I don't have any furniture fit for someone your size, though. Would you be amenable to a pallet in my sitting room?"

Boromir nodded once. "Of course. I have slept in far worse conditions, believe me." He followed Bilbo into the kitchen and sat on one of the sturdiest-looking chairs. Bilbo had just poured him a cup of tea and set a small seed cake in front of him when the bell rang at the door.

Immediately, Bilbo excused himself and scuttled off to answer it. "Must be Gandalf," he explained. A moment later, a voice issued down the hall. "Dwalin, at your service."

Boromir sipped his tea, smiling. _And so it begins._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note: I return once again with a chapter for my dedicated readers! I am very pleased with how well this story has been received so far. I will now start answering reviews (because I am very bad about not doing that, and I want to start), so leave any reactions or questions you may have. I will try to answer them via PM, but guest reviews will be answered in a designated response section. Please refrain from making suggestions about how to progress the story, though, as I already have it pretty much laid out. Thank you, and happy reading!**_

 **Chapter 3**

Boromir did not stand when Dwalin entered the room, simply because he didn't want to risk head injury just for the sake of being polite. He did, however, dip his head, sending the surly-looking Dwarf a friendly smile. "Good evening, Master Dwarf. Boromir of Gondor, at your service. Mr. Baggins was so kind as to allow a lost traveler to take shelter under his roof."

Dwalin just glowered at the Man sitting at the Hobbit's table. His mood improved, however, when he noticed a plate of fish in front of an unoccupied chair. The Dwarf tromped over and settled himself into the chair, eagerly setting upon the food.

Boromir sipped at his tea and took a bite of the seed cake—a very delicious one, he noted—all the while keeping his eyes on Dwalin. Bilbo soon reentered the room, and he looked none too pleased about a strange, uninvited Dwarf eating his dinner. With a small chuckle, Boromir broke the cake in two and handed one half to the flustered Hobbit.

"Very good, this," said Dwalin between bites, looking quite satisfied. "Any more?"

"Hmm?" replied Bilbo. "Oh, oh, yes. Of course." He picked up a plate of rolls, but he quickly slipped one behind his back before offering the dish to Dwalin, who promptly snatched a roll from the pile.

Bilbo shot a questioning look at Boromir, who merely shrugged in reply. What was he supposed to say? "Brace yourself; there's twelve more coming"? Yes, that would go over well.

The master of the house cleared his throat politely. "Sorry, it's just…I wasn't expecting company," he muttered quietly. Suddenly, a jangling ring echoed from down the hall.

Dwalin turned and looked at Bilbo critically. "That'll be the door," he said pointedly. Poor Bilbo had no choice but to excuse himself and scuttle off to greet his next guest.

Boromir feigned ignorance. "Are you expecting many more?" he asked. At Dwalin's affirmative nod, he continued, "Well, then, perhaps you should wait and begin setting out the dinner table when more of your party have arrived?"

The bald Dwarf glanced at the door Bilbo had walked out of. "I thought he was supposed to have supper waitin' for us," he replied, disgruntled.

The Man gave a wry smile. "Well, it seems to me that a certain Wizard may have neglected to mention the number of guests our esteemed host was meant to expect this evening."

At this piece of information, Dwalin looked back down the hall incredulously, then he snorted. "Ruddy Wizards, always keepin' things to themselves," he groused.

"Evening, Brother!" a jovial voice called. The pair glanced up to see a white-haired Dwarf with a _very_ large nose standing in the doorway. Dwalin chuckled as he stood up.

"By my beard," he exclaimed, walking over to the other Dwarf, "you're shorter and wider than last we met."

The other one shook his head. "Wider, not shorter," he corrected, "and sharp enough for both of us." This last he said with a wink, before they clasped each other's shoulders and bashed their foreheads together. Boromir blinked in surprise; this was one piece of Dwarvish culture Gimli had most certainly _not_ mentioned.

Suddenly, the older Dwarf noticed the stranger at the table. "Ah, forgive me." He bowed, spreading his arms. "Balin, at your service."

Boromir dipped his head politely. "Boromir of Gondor, at yours and your family's," he answered respectfully. "Your pardon; I would rise, but…" He glanced pointedly up at the low ceiling, causing Balin to chuckle.

"Aye, I wouldn't want you cracking your head open, laddie," Balin replied. As the two Dwarves shuffled off to the pantry, Bilbo poked his head into the dining room, looking quite put out.

"What are they doing in my pantry?" the Hobbit whispered. Boromir shrugged, causing Bilbo to sigh in exasperation before following Balin and Dwalin. As Bilbo proceeded to attempt to reason with the two Dwarves, Boromir took the opportunity to exit the dining room and stand in the hall; he had a feeling it was about to get a bit crowded in there. Sure enough, it was barely five minutes before the bell rang again.

Bilbo scuttled past him and opened the door, which Boromir had positioned himself next to. Two quite young Dwarves were standing in the entrance; one of them was so young he didn't even have a proper beard, just a bit of stubble around his jaw and cheeks.

"Fili," said the blond one, which the brunet answered with "and Kili." They both proceeded to bow and intone in unison, "At your service."

Kili had a smile on his face when they righted themselves. "You must be Mr. Boggins!" he proclaimed, annoying Bilbo even further.

"Nope!" Bilbo cried, not even trying for politeness this time. "You can't come in; you've come to the wrong house." With that, he tried to close the door, but Kili caught it and pushed forward, a distressed look on his face.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Has it been cancelled?"

Fili glanced between Bilbo and Kili. "No one told us," he mused.

Now it was Bilbo's turn to be confused. "Can—no, nothing's been cancelled!" What he meant to say was that nothing had been cancelled because nothing had been arranged in the first place, but he never got that far.

Kili let out a sigh. "That's a relief!" Then he and his brother both pushed their way inside.

Fili began handing his many, many weapons over to the flustered Hobbit. "Careful with these; I just had 'em sharpened."

"It's nice, this place," Kili commented, looking around. "Did you do it yourself?"

"Uh, no, it's been in the family for years," Bilbo replied distractedly. Kili raised his foot to scrape mud off his boot on a very old, very expensive-looking ornamental box. Boromir's arm shot out and pulled Kili back, fixing him with a stern look.

"Perhaps, young Master Kili," he said softly, "you should ask the master of the house where exactly it is appropriate for you to remove the mud from your shoes." It was only after the words left his mouth that Boromir realized he had sounded like Aragorn, giving him a twinge of longing for his friend. He needed to get back so he could set things right.

Kili, looking properly abashed, set his booted foot back on the ground. Bilbo nodded at Boromir gratefully and directed the young Dwarf to the mat by the door.

Boromir bowed to Fili and Kili, making sure not to hit his head when he righted himself. "Boromir of Gondor, at your service," he said, wondering exactly how many times he would have to repeat that tonight.

Before the two Dwarves could reply, Dwalin tromped down the hall. "Fili, Kili, come on! Give us a hand," he ordered, throwing an arm around Kili's shoulders and leading him to the dining room.

"Mr. Dwalin," Kili said in greeting as he and his brother joined Balin.

"Right, let's shove this into the hallway, or we'll never get everyone in," Balin directed, motioning for all the others to begin pushing the table.

"'Everyone?!'" Bilbo exclaimed incredulously. "How many more are there?" Just then, the bell rang yet again. "Oh, no," he murmured. "No, no, there's nobody home!" The Hobbit angrily dumped Fili's weapons onto the floor against the wall as he stalked back to the front door. "Go away and bother somebody else! There's far too many Dwarves in my dining room as it is." Boromir had to try very, very hard to keep from laughing; the little fellow's temper was highly amusing. "I-i-if this is some _clothead's_ idea of a joke—ha ha!—I can only say it is in very poor taste!"

With that final declaration, Bilbo yanked open the door, causing eight Dwarves to tumble into the hole and onto the floor in a heap, which was most unfortunate considering that the biggest one was the one on top of the whole pile. And there, leaning on his staff and peering through the doorway…

"Gandalf," Bilbo muttered, almost like a curse.

"Gandalf," Boromir whispered. But he wasn't seeing the Wizard looking curiously into Bilbo's home. He was seeing the Wizard falling to his death after fighting the Balrog. Boromir had thought it would be easy, going back in time to help Thorin. But how could he save Thorin and his nephews knowing that there was nothing he could do to save the Wizard?


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note: I am back! Sorry for the wait. I am very pleased with the response this has gotten so far, and I hope I will continue to live up to your expectations.**_

 _ **Guest: I'm glad you think it's well-written; poorly written fics with great ideas are one of my biggest pet peeves. Hopefully you'll like this chapter as much as the previous ones!**_

 **Chapter 4**

Boromir was pleased that he was managing to remember everyone's names. The last bunch of Dwarves had comprised of three sets of brothers and one cousin: Dori, Nori, and Ori; Oín and Gloín; Bofur, Bombur, and their cousin, Bifur.

Boromir was seated beside Balin, near the head of the table, across from Gandalf. Currently, Fíli was walking on top of the table, passing out ales. Dwalin had just poured ale down Oín's ear trumpet, which the elderly Dwarf proceeded to blow out all over the table.

The food was excellent; Boromir had not had such a meal since the Fellowship had left Lothlórien. He was careful not to drink too much of the ale, though; the last thing he needed was to lose his wits and let slip that he was from the future.

And speaking of the future… Gandalf had accepted Boromir's story of being a lost traveler without question, but he had given a look that made the Man suspect the Wizard knew something was off. But no matter; he could deal with Gandalf's mistrust, so glad was he to be in his company again.

Suddenly, Boromir found Balin nudging his elbow. "The lads want you to join in a…belching contest," Balin said, sounding both amused and disgusted. "They've never competed against a Man before, and want to know if you're any match for them."

Boromir grinned down toward the other end of the table. "I think you will find me a poor sport, but I'll indulge you, nevertheless!"

"Right then!" called Dwalin as he and the other Dwarves—Balin, Dori, and Oín excepted—grabbed mugs of ale. "One, two—"

"Up!" cried Kíli. As one, all of them, including Boromir, tipped back their tankards and gulped the ale down in one go. One by one, the Dwarves let loose loud burps. It looked like Ori was going to win; his was by far the loudest and the longest. Finally, Boromir stood up to take his turn.

The result was that all the diners—even Gandalf—sat in stunned silence for a full three seconds. Then, the Dwarves burst into raucous cheers. It seemed that, by this one act, Boromir had been accepted among them. Meanwhile, poor Bilbo was lamenting the state of his poor pantry.

When it came time to put up the dishes, Boromir stood back out of the way. Plates and bowls were flying everywhere. The Dwarves had produced instruments and started up a jig, detailing the horrible things they could do to dishes, none of which happened.

Almost as soon as the song ended (much to Bilbo's relief), there came from the front door three booming knocks.

Gandalf fixed Bilbo with a steely gaze. "He is here," he announced ominously.

Boromir took a deep breath. This was the meeting he'd been anticipating…and dreading. If Thorin didn't accept him into the Company, his task would be practically impossible.

All of them filed down the hallway to the front door. Gandalf opened it to reveal a noble-looking Dwarf with a stony face and black hair frosted lightly with grey.

"Gandalf," Thorin greeted. His voice was as deep as a mine, and his eyes as sharp and blue as a shard of ice. "I thought you said this place would be easy to find," he continued as he entered the hole. "I lost my way—twice. Wouldn't have found it all had it not been for that mark on the door."

Bilbo stepped forward indignantly. "Mark? There's no mark on that door," he countered. "It was painted a week ago!"

"There _is_ a mark on the door; I put it there myself," Gandalf replied. "Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield."

Thorin stepped forward, eyeing Bilbo critically. "So…this is the Hobbit." Bilbo drew himself up to his full height, which admittedly was still shorter than Thorin. "Tell me, Master Baggins, have you done much fighting?"

"Excuse me?" Bilbo responded, perplexed.

"Axe or sword, what's your weapon of choice?" the Dwarf continued, circling Bilbo and surveying him.

The Hobbit puffed out his chest. "Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know." At Thorin's look, he deflated. "Though I fail to see…why that's relevant."

"Thought as much," Thorin observed smugly. "He looks more like a grocer than a burglar." This got a chuckle out of the Company. As Thorin turned to go down the hall, he found the way blocked by Boromir. "And who are you, may I ask?" he asked gruffly, a mistrustful look in his eyes.

Much to Thorin's surprise, Boromir dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "I am Boromir of Gondor, your majesty," he said respectfully, "and I am most humbly at your service."

It took Thorin a moment to compose himself. There were few enough Dwarves that showed him this level of respect, and most Men he had come across would not suffer to even dip their heads in greeting. Yet this Man, with nothing more than an introduction, had recognized that Thorin was a king worthy of honor.

Dwalin had been wary of how Boromir would react to Thorin. Oh, the Man had gotten along with the rest of them well enough, but meeting Thorin was the real test. When Boromir had dropped to one knee, with such a genuine look of reverence on his face, Dwalin—though he would never admit it—had felt tears spring to his eyes. There was little he wouldn't give to have Thorin greeted this way by everyone, to be treated as the king he truly was.

When Thorin had recovered, he smiled at Boromir and clasped his shoulder. "Thorin Oakenshield, at yours and your family's," he replied gently. "How came you to be so far from home?"

Boromir raised his head, but remained in his kneeling position. "I am returning from visiting distant cousins in Esteldín. I lost my way and found myself here in the Shire, where Master Baggins was so kind as to allow me to take refuge under his roof."

Finding this answer to be satisfactory, Thorin nodded and headed over to the table. Since he had not been dismissed, Boromir concluded that he was allowed to remain while the Dwarves discussed their business. Fíli brought a plate of food and a goblet of wine for Thorin, which his uncle accepted gratefully.

As he ate, the others began to question him about his doings.

"How went the meeting in Ered Luin?" Balin asked. "Did they all come?"

Thorin nodded. "Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms," he replied. Even though the others let out mutterings of approval, Boromir kept his eyes on Thorin. Something in his face and voice made Boromir frown; though it sounded like the meeting had gone well, Thorin was clearly displeased about something.

Now Dwalin leaned forward. "And what did the Dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?" The tension in the room was practically tangible as the others waiting for Thorin's answer.

He let out a rueful sigh, deflating slightly. "They will not come." He sounded weary when he said it, like he knew that this would be the answer, but he had still hoped for a different one. The other Dwarves had much the same reaction. "They say this quest is ours and ours alone."

A small voice piped up from behind Thorin. "You're going on a quest?" Nearly everyone turned to look at Bilbo, who had been hovering curiously beside Gandalf.

The Wizard cleared his throat. "Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light," he requested. While the Hobbit fetched another candle, Gandalf stood up and pulled a small folded square of parchment out of his robes. "Far to the east, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands…" Here, Gandalf spread out the paper and laid it on the table, revealing it to be a map. "…lies a single solitary peak."

Boromir leaned forward, examining it. He was amused to see Bilbo doing the same. "'The Lonely Mountain,'" Bilbo read aloud, sounding a tad confused.

"Aye," Gloín spoke up. "Oín has read the portents, and the portents say it is time."

Boromir looked at Oín curiously. "If I may ask, what portents do you mean?" he queried curiously, raising his voice slightly for the elderly Dwarf to hear.

The old healer smiled at the Man, gratified by his inquisitiveness. "Ravens have been seen flying back to the Mountain, as it was foretold," he said, and his voice took on a trance-like quality with his next words: "When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end."

Bilbo, who had been listening quietly up to that point, glanced nervously at the assembled Dwarves. "Uh…what beast?" he asked, though it was clear he was not looking forward to the answer.

Bofur removed his pipe from his mouth to answer. "Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our Age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks…extremely fond of precious metals-"

"Yes, I know what a dragon is," Bilbo interrupted, sounding annoyed. Boromir privately agreed; even children knew what a dragon was.

"I'm not afraid!" Ori declared, standing up. "I'm up for it. I'll give him a taste of Dwarfish iron right up his jacksie!" While the other Dwarves cheered in agreement, his eldest brother, Dori, pulled him back down into his seat, a disapproving look on his face.

Now Balin spoke up, a deep frown on his face. "The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us, but we number just thirteen. And not thirteen of the best, nor brightest."

As the others started protesting and grumbling, Fíli's voice broke through the din. "We may be few in number," he agreed, "but we're fighters. All of us. To the last Dwarf!" Boromir found himself admiring the young prince's courage, naïve though it might be. It reminded him very much of Merry.

"And you forget," Kíli added, "we have a Wizard in our company. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time." _And he is definitely Pippin,_ Boromir thought to himself with a small chuckle. He may not know very much about Gandalf's doings and adventures, but he was _certain_ that the Wizard had never killed a dragon.

His hunch was validated at Gandalf's immediate protest. "Well, uh, no, I wouldn't say that, I…"

"How many then?" Dori asked eagerly.

"What?"

"How many dragons have you killed?" Thorin just gave the Wizard a smug look. Gandalf, meanwhile, proceeded to cough and choke on his pipe smoke. The other Dwarves had broken out into an argument as to the exact number, which was growing increasingly louder. Bilbo was beginning to look uncomfortable and actually a tad worried until Thorin rose to his feet, roaring out a command in Dwarvish. Instantly, the others quieted and sat down.

"If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them, too?" Thorin demanded, scowling around the room. "Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the Mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected." A change came over Thorin then, and it was as though a fire had been lit within him, a fire that spread outward into those around him. "Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor? _Du bekar! Du bekar!_ "

Boromir, much to his own surprise, was cheering along with the others when Balin spoke again, the voice of reason coming through. "You forget: the Front Gate is sealed! There is no way into the Mountain."

"That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true," Gandalf countered, twirling a strange looking key around his fingers.

"How came you by this?" Thorin breathed.

Gandalf gave Thorin a sympathetic look. "It was given to me by your father, by Thrain, for safe-keeping. It is yours, now." Reverently, he held it out to Thorin, who gladly accepted it.

Fíli finally gave voice to what everyone else was thinking. "If there is a key…there must be a door."

Gandalf pointed to a set of runes on the side of the map. "These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls," he explained.

"There's another way in," Kíli muttered joyously.

"Well, if we can find it, but Dwarf doors are invisible when closed," the Wizard reminded them. He sighed, frustrated. "The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map, and I do not have the skill to find it. But, there are others in Middle-Earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."

"That's why we need a burglar!" Ori explained.

"Hm, and a good one, too," Bilbo observed, seemingly not realizing he was talking out loud. "An expert, I'd imagine."

"And are you?" Gloín asked, sounding somewhat patronizing.

It was all Boromir could do not to laugh at Bilbo's puzzled face. "Am I what?" the Hobbit asked.

"He's said he's an expert! Hey-hey!" Oín exclaimed triumphantly.

"Me? No! No, no, no, no! I'm not a burglar!" Bilbo retorted desperately. "I've never stolen a thing in my life."

Balin gazed at Bilbo critically. "I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins," he remarked. "He's hardly burglar material." The Hobbit nodded in agreement.

"Aye," mused Dwalin, "the Wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves." Boromir thought back to his first impressions of the Hobbits in Rivendell, then flashed to their encounter with Goblins in Moria. The Hobbits had fought with such ferocity that he had never even imagined them being capable of. Suddenly, Boromir glanced sorrowfully at Balin. Of course, how could he have forgotten? It was _his_ tomb they were in when they fought the Cave Troll.

Boromir was jerked out of his thoughts by the Dwarves breaking into a loud argument—again. Honestly, was that all they knew how to do?

"Enough!" Gandalf boomed, and his voice and presence took up the entire room. "If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!" Gandalf seemed to shrink slightly, but he did not sit down again. "Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of Dwarf, the scent of a Hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage." He looked around at the other Dwarves, his gaze resting the longest on Dwalin and Thorin. "You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know…including himself."

If Boromir had had any doubts about Bilbo going on this quest, they were dispelled by Gandalf's words.

Thorin still looked doubtful. Gandalf fixed him with a stern, yet pleading gaze. "You must trust me in this," he said softly.

"Very well," Thorin replied. Bilbo started to protest, but he was cut off by Thorin turning to Balin. "Give him the contract," he ordered.

"Alright," Bofur exclaimed gleefully. "We're off!"

Balin stood up, handing a long sheet of parchment folded many times to Bilbo. "It's just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth." Thorin took the contract and thrust it into Bilbo's hands.

"Funeral arrangements?" Bilbo cried, looking quite flustered.

Thorin whispered something in Gandalf's ear, but Boromir was watching Bilbo's reaction as he read the contract.

"Terms: Cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one fourteenth of total profit, if any. Seems fair," he observed quietly. "Eh, present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof including but not limited to lacerations…evisceration?" He looked at the others in horror and disbelief. "Incineration?!"

"Oh, aye, he'll melt the flesh of your bones in the blink of an eye," Bofur replied, a bit too cheerfully.

The others were also watching Bilbo, sizing him up. "You all right, laddie?" Balin asked in concern.

"Uh, yeah," Bilbo responded. He bent over, putting his hands on his knees and breathing deeply. "Feel a bit faint."

Bofur stood up, moving towards the doorway to the hall. "Think furnace with wings," he said.

"Air, I need air," Bilbo muttered, looking quite pale.

"Bofur, I think that's enough," Boromir said, but the toymaker was not listening.

"Flash of light, searing pain, then poof! You're nothing more than a pile of ash!"

At first, it looked like Bilbo would be fine. He stood up straight and took a few deep breaths, staring at the others. Then, with a muttered "nope", the Hobbit toppled over onto the floor.

"Oh, very helpful, Bofur," Gandalf grumbled. Boromir quickly strode over to Bilbo and picked him up, carrying him to an armchair in the closest sitting room. As Thorin and Balin moved over to have a private conversation, Boromir took a deep, steadying breath. _Now for the hard part._


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note: I meant to return to this story much sooner, but I at first lost motivation to write and then I lost time to write. Such is the life of the nursing student. And goodness, I didn't expect this to get so popular! Ah, my lovely readers, you bring me such joy! I hope to return the favor with this long-awaited chapter. I offer my most sincere apologies for the wait, and while I can't promise there won't be more delays, I shall at least endeavor to make them not as long as this one.**_

 **Chapter 5**

Boromir approached Thorin nervously, dipping his head in respect. When Thorin nodded at him once in acknowledgement, Boromir took a deep breath. He had thought about how to phrase his request without seeming suspicious. He decided that the best way was to be honest, or at least as honest as he could be. Boromir considered himself to be a man of integrity, so even his necessary lie about how he'd arrived in the Shire had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Still, he doubted that "I was sent here from the future to keep you and your nephews alive" would go over very well, either. Boromir had to admit that if someone were to say something like that to him, he would definitely write them off as mad.

So, Boromir decided to appeal to something he and Thorin had in common: their love for their homes.

"My lord Thorin," he said solemnly, "I wish to offer my services in the quest to reclaim Erebor. You have said your kin claim this quest is yours and yours alone. I say that is not how it should be." Boromir took another deep breath to steady himself before soldiering on with his case. "The Oath of Eorl bound Rohan and Gondor together long ago. We swore to give aid to each other should need arise. Our realms consider each other, if not kin, then the closest of allies. If Minas Tirith was taken from Gondor and Rohan refused to help, the Oath of Eorl would be broken, and our countries would likely fall into war."

Boromir looked Thorin directly in the eyes. "I know not the custom of Dwarves in this matter, and far be it from me to speak against your kin. However, since you have not their aid, I beg you will take what help I can offer you in their stead."

Thorin and Balin were silent for a long moment. Finally, Oakenshield turned to the old Dwarf and said, "We shall have to restructure the contract; the treasure must now be divided into fifteen equal shares instead of fourteen."

Boromir cleared his throat. "My lord, please, that is not necessary," he explained. "I may be no better than another traveler now, but in Gondor, I am not without my own wealth. I have no need nor desire for the gold within the Lonely Mountain."

Balin smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Well, be that as it may, laddie, we'll still see you given some compensation. At the very least enough to see you safely home."

Thorin also gave him a small half-smile. "And you may dispense with the 'my lord' business. I am no king until Erebor is reclaimed. You will address me as Thorin, like the rest of my company."

Boromir nodded once. "As you wish, Thorin. And I thank you for allowing me to join your company." Before Thorin could form a reply, the three of them watched Bilbo march out of the sitting room down the corridor.

"It appears we have lost our Burglar," Balin observed somberly. "Probably for the best. The odds were always against us. After all, what are we?" His gaze turned toward the Dwarves lounging about Bag End. "Merchants. Miners. Tinkers. Toy-makers." He scoffed, turning back to Thorin. "Hardly the stuff of legend."

"There are a few warriors amongst us," a slightly amused Thorin pointed out with a gleam in his eye.

Balin sighed. "Old warriors," he countered, clearly referring to himself. He looked up at Boromir. "And even the younger ones would stand little to no chance against a dragon."

Thorin stood up straight from the wall. "I would take each and every one of this Company over an army from the Iron Hills. For when I called upon them they answered, or else volunteered based solely upon a common love for our homes. Loyalty. Honor. A willing heart." Thorin allowed the barest hint of a smile to touch his lips as he concluded, "I can ask no more than that."

Balin moved closer to Thorin, a pleading look on his face. "You don't have to do this. You've done honorably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace and plenty." When Thorin looked away, Balin added pointedly, "A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor."

Fishing the key out of his pocket, Thorin said to Balin, "From my grandfather to my father, _this_ has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the Dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me."

Boromir thought back to when he had first met Aragorn, when he had been admiring the shards of Narsil. Many times after the Council of Elrond, Boromir had wracked his brain for the reason Aragorn had chosen not to reveal his identity to him. His words to Isildur's Heir on the Anduin may have been spoken in anger, but they were no less true. Aragorn _was_ afraid, but having gone through his ordeal with the Ring, Boromir now truly understood what that fear was.

Aragorn was afraid not of being king, but of succumbing to the same weakness his ancestor had. In many ways, Thorin was what Boromir had wanted Aragorn to be like: someone who saw his destiny and, rather than try to hide from it, faced it head-on. However, whereas Aragorn was burdened by his predecessor's failings, Thorin seemed burdened by their expectations. He firmly believed that if he did not at least attempt to take back Erebor, he would be viewed as a failure, even though his mission seemed doomed to failure.

And Boromir knew Thorin's fate. Erebor was reclaimed, in the end, but the price? Thorin perished, along with his two nephews, the young Dwarves that reminded Boromir so much of the Hobbits he had come to love and cherish so deeply, his little ones. If he remembered correctly, in his time, the Lonely Mountain was currently under the rule of Dain Ironfoot. Boromir was unsure of Dain's relation to Thorin, but he knew that if he succeeded in his mission, that was one thing about the future that would change.

A hand on his shoulder made Boromir turn around. Gandalf fixed him with a look before beckoning him into the sitting room Bilbo had exited earlier. Once inside, the Wizard bade Boromir sit down, which he did, despite the comical size of the chair. His curiosity about why Gandalf had wanted to speak with him was soon dispelled in a very disquieting way.

"The horn you carry on your belt," Gandalf said. "It's a curious item. I have seen one exactly like it before…in the possession of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. How is it you have come to carry it?"

Boromir could think of no lie that would sound believable. The Horn of Gondor had been passed down through the line of Stewards for generations, from father to eldest son. He should have known better than to think Mithrandir would not recognize the relic.

Deciding there was nothing for it, Boromir opted to tell the truth and hope Gandalf would believe him. Keeping his voice low, he replied, "I carry the Horn of Gondor because, 80 years from now, I am Ecthelion's grandson."

Boromir did at least have the rare treat of seeing Gandalf look surprised. From what he had seen of the Wizard, that was something that did not happen often. For a long moment, the pair was silent.

Finally, Gandalf remarked, "There is no lie in your eyes. You do not have the look of a madman, therefore the only alternative is that you are telling the truth, as impossible as it sounds." He pursed his lips in thought before continuing, "I can only assume that you are here for a purpose, and that it has something to do with the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. For now, I shall keep my questions to myself. However, I will be keeping an eye on you, two eyes when I can spare them."

Boromir placed a hand to his heart. "You do not know me, Mithrandir, but I do know you. I swear on my honor as a Man of Gondor that I mean no harm to Thorin or indeed any other member of this Company." He took a deep breath before saying, "Illuvatar gave me a task to complete. If you ask it of me, I will reveal it to you. However, if you do not, I will keep as much information as I can to myself. I know not what may affect the future I come from, and there are some things that must not change."

Gandalf seemed to accept this explanation. He nodded once, satisfied. "Very well. You will forgive me, however, if I do not trust you immediately. Still, I can appreciate a need for secrecy, especially in a delicate matter such as this. It speaks to your character that you have won Thorin over; trust me when I say, that is no mean feat."

They were interrupted when Bilbo suddenly appeared in the entrance to the sitting room, an armful of blankets in his arms. "It's getting a bit late," he explained. "I thought you might be ready to settle in for the night. Thorin said they want to make an early start, so you'll need your sleep."

Boromir gratefully took the blankets from the Hobbit. "If I had known I would find such a gracious host," he complimented, "I would have gotten lost in the Shire far sooner. My thanks, Master Baggins."

Bilbo smiled at the remark. "No trouble at all. And please, call me Bilbo. I hope you sleep well, Boromir." The Hobbit turned to Gandalf and asked, "Will you also be needing a pallet, Gandalf?"

Gandalf smiled kindly at Bilbo. "That would be much appreciated, Bilbo, thank you. These old bones would welcome a chance to sleep under a warm, dry roof after all the traveling I've done of late."

As the pair exited the sitting room, Boromir spread out the blankets on the floor and began preparing for sleep. He used his Galadhrim cloak for a blanket, since all the ones Bilbo had brought were Hobbit-sized and therefore much too small. Boromir resolved to acquire a pack tomorrow to stow the cloak in; he had little doubt Gandalf would also recognize a gift from Lothlórien, and he'd had quite enough of the Wizard's perceptive questions for now.

As Boromir began drifting off into sleep, the sound of singing filtered down the hall, singing from deep-voiced Dwarvish throats.

 _The pines were roaring on the height  
_ _The winds were moaning in the night  
_ _The fire was red; it flaming spread  
_ _The trees like torches blazed with light_


End file.
